Prairie Summer

I kneel in grass gone crisp with July,

part stalks of raspberry bushes

finger-tips blooming red, knees smudged

and dimpled by the small hardness of pebbles.

Overhead, a Whiskey Jack attempts to thieve

a few spilled berries, while I pretend

not to notice.

From my rooftop, I'm sure I could see fields

gold with canola, their brightness shocking

in early dusk.

I dig fingers into the earth, searching

for moisture, my garden spade

ready to carve out a spot for a few Asters,

bring some patience to my garden.

Here beyond the mountains, I'm learning

a different kind of summer, one dry

and windy and ever rolling

with a green sometimes overwhelming.

La Sabranenque

In the kitchen, steam billows from pots

and strips of zucchini soften.

Lazy flies hover near the steam,

tasting my knuckles as I peel

cloves of garlic, smashing each one

on the steel countertop, grating

until my fingers are raw.

They will smell of garlic for weeks.

I escape the heat and flies

for the cool courtyard,

eyes wet with the sting of red onion,

the peel sticks to my fingertips

like children at an apron’s hem.

Outside, another volunteer swings

the lettuce dry, round and round

in a wire basket, a light rain

dotting the stone steps.

I know that uphill, work has not ceased.

The pound of hammer against rock echoes

to the courtyard, interrupts this moment

of silent rest. The stomp of footsteps goes on,

hands lugging quarried stone to the wall

each worker searching

for a place to lay their paving stone.

What I don’t know is that

I will miss this heat,

glistening scorpions,

and mortar-burned fingertips;

stone pitchers of wine,

the climb to the castle each morning

and even, perhaps

the hand-sized spiders

and the way they hover

above your bed,

on walls, in shoes,

wondering how long

you will stay

and when you will return.